


Something to be Envied

by wildlyfuriousdragon



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, But like I forgot to write the comfort, Emotionally and physically, Hurt and comfort, Infidelity, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 07:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12979044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlyfuriousdragon/pseuds/wildlyfuriousdragon
Summary: A tragedy befalls the revolutionaries.How do they cope with increased strain of the prolonged war and increasingly slim chances of victory?(Mainly about Hamwash(?) Washilton (?) with other tragedies to help spur the action)





	1. Chapter 1: Stalemates and Bedmates

**Author's Note:**

> I knew it I kept this in my drafts I'd never finish it so I'm publishing it now to MOTIVATE MEEEEEE (and schools over the year so I'll probably finish this before January!) 
> 
> (I have Chapter 2 in the works and it's significantly longer this time around) 
> 
> (Also Chris is being played by Donald Glover)

Lafayette disappears from the tavern long before, as Lauren’s put it, the real party even begins. He doesn’t particularly care about the party. The alcohol had been flowing long beforehand and Lafayette had overdone it. Instead of feeling at ease  the liquor had only made the anger in his stomach burn hotter and the sadness twist tortuously inside of him.

 

It’s not often that the troops go out and get drunken beyond comprehension but the General had uncharacteristically insisted. The weeks battles had taken a toll on everyone and they deserved at least a break while the stalemate lasted. 

 

He stumbles out of the tavern, tripping on obstacles both real and conjured from his drunken state fighting the feeling of tears threatening to fall. 

 

_ Fuck those disgusting Brits _ . He mutters to himself.  _ Fuck that yellowed-bellied coward Lee _ . 

 

He’d kill Lee himself if he ever had the chance. 

 

******

His name was Chris. 

 

He was only 21. 

 

He didn’t even want to fight. 

 

Lafayette has asked him one night what he would have done if there had never been a war. If his father hadn’t insisted that he join the Continental Army.

 

At first Chris refused to answer— burying his face in brown curls and feigning sleep until Lafayette rolled on top of him in the grass. He pinned him while Chris squirmed and laughed as Lafayette peppered his face and neck with kisses until he finally answered breathless. 

 

“I’d make music. Write poems and lyrics and have a home full of instruments and teach lessons to all the children around and maybe write great symphonies-“ Lafayette cut him off with long kiss on his mouth suddenly overwhelmed. The picture was so crystal clear in his mind that for a blessed second it seemed feasible. 

 

“Would you write songs about me?” Lafayette asked quietly. He shouldn’t be entertaining this- he shouldn’t fill either of their heads with dalliances that will never come to pass. Once the war is over so will this. This wonderful, distracting affair. 

 

“Oh  _ mon chou-  _ you’re as if God took every heart-sick, lustful, infatuated word that I’ve ever uttered and made him into a man.” 

 

Lafayette doesn’t really have time to take him again in the pasture. Dawn is creeping up into the sky and the camp will be waking up soon but it doesn’t stop him from fucking into Chris slowly, whispering poetry of his own. 

 

_ “I adore you” _

 

_ “I’ll send for you once there’s peace in France”  _

 

_ “I can’t wait to hear all the things you create.”  _

 

_ “Your body is the only instrument I’d want to play.”  _

 

_ “You crying my name is the only music I’d wanna hear.”  _

 

* * *

 

 

They aren’t together during the Battle of Monmouth. 

 

In fact even as the bloodshed ceases and the defeat is ensured it doesn’t occur to Lafayette to check the death rosters - a pieces of  parchment nailed somberly by the different platoon captains

 

He spends the first few days waiting for John to come back to camp. He arrives with  a nasty scar on his cheek and countless bruises but nevertheless alive. Most of his battalion is with him which is a relief. 

 

Lafayette wasn’t so lucky. 

 

Washington sending him to replace Lee had been an honor but by the time Lafayette had finally gotten to the front lines……the damage had been done. He organized the retreat the best he could but he’d only returned with half of the men. 

 

He meets with John the following morning at the breakfast which for the first time there is abundance. Someone mutters something about there being less mouths to feed as he digs into his porridge and Lafayette slaps him upside the head as he walks past and gives him a withering glare as he sits down. 

 

John and Lafayette talk quietly as the morning progresses. Washington (and Hamilton) and his entourage haven’t arrived. Lee’s actions were - horrific and idiotic and the whole camp was anxious to see how the general would react. 

 

“Lee ought to be strung up on the gallows.” John says during a lull. Lafayette chokes on his porridge and stares at his friend. 

 

“You can’t be serious?” 

 

“What good is he doing for the cause? For the war? He’s more trouble than he’s worth and if you ask me-“ 

 

Lafayette raises a hand to stop him. 

 

“The war is hard enough without infighting.” John frowns and glares at his bowl, his frustration etched so clearly on his face. 

 

“We will fight and we will win. The British are nothing against even the dumbest American generals.” Lafayette grins and continues to eat. 

 

“I️ always forget you’ve got a whole other war to fight after this over.” John says. Lafayette stops with his spoon halfway to his mouth. For a moment he’s perfect still before he stands suddenly. John flinches, thinking he’s said something insensitive but as he opens his mouth to apologize Lafayette raises his free hand and shakes his head. 

“It’s the general.” 

 

“Good god.” John breathes. 

 

The giant black Belgian war horse breaks through the clearing agitated and grumpy. His rider matches his horse's demeanor. Washington’s face is as clear as a storm approaching on a sea. Lafayette can see that he’s barely holding his composure.. He can’t imagine what may be going through the general's mind and he doesn’t want to be first person to speak to him lest he become the unfortunate object of his fury. 

 

Hamilton’s own steer predictably pulls close behind Washington. If the general's face was only a harbinger for an incoming storm, Alexander’s face was full of lightening and thunder and waves of anger. His horse trots nervously as Alexander holds his reigns in a death pale grip.

 

Behind them straggles the remaining men that disobeyed Lee’s charge to retreat from the field. Lafayette tried to see heros as the young men dragged their feet woods but can only see exhaustion behind their bloodshot eyes. 

 

“Lafayette!!! SIR!” The Frenchman turns to see a scrappy looking boy sprinting through the trees. He’s out of breath when he finally reaches Lafayette and stumbles over his words. 

 

“I’ve got- got- got-” the young man keels over before Laf can stop and catch him and they both sink into the grass. John jogs over with a cup of water and some bread and they wait for him to catch his bearings. 

 

“I think you should rest before anything else sir.” Lafayette says gently. There is something vaguely familiar about the young man but he can’t place it. The young man shakes his head before digging into his breast pocket. He produces a piece of paper, worn dirty and slightly burned at one end. 

 

“You know my cousin Chris right?” Lafayette feels his heart begins to thud inside of his chest a torrent emotion rushing over him. He doubts that Chris, even to his cousin would have told him the depth of their relationship but even the thought send an icy shudder through his bones. Just as quickly as that thought swells he realizes that he hasn’t seen Chris since the battle. 

 

“Oui, je sais.” he mutters quietly as dread begins to build in his throat. The young man presses the paper into Lafayette's chest with a small smile on his face. 

 

“He was always saying that I couldn’t write for shit. But while I was in the trenches I wrote a ‘lil poem for him.” He laughs then begins coughing violently into his fist. When he pulls it away again it's covered in blood and spittle. Lafayette hears John call out for a medic but it sounds so far away he doesn’t move when the doctor and nurse come through with the stretcher. 

 

The young man is gone as fast as he arrived. Lafayette realizes that he’s clutching the paper in his fist with a vice grip and forces himself to relax. 

 

He’ll check the roster tonights.

 

He already knows what he’ll find.


	2. Lavender & Navi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 forces collide one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEAVY HAMWASH CHAPTER
> 
> love confessions oh my gosh 
> 
> I have to work in 6 hours help 
> 
> I'm too tired to explain what the chapter titles mean.

  1. The General 



 

“Easy, easy.” George whispers to the warhorse. She winnes anxiously, bucking away from his touch. George tries again to run the brush over the great beast back but she bucks harder and threatens to rear upwards. He throws the brush into the nearby hay and raises his hands in a defensive retreat. 

 

“Fine. We’ll try tomorrow morning.” She winnies again and digs back into her oats. George sits down heavily into the hay as well. He runs a rough hand over his tired face and sighs heavily. About 70 men dead and another 100 missing. 

 

It’s all his fault. 

 

He wants to point fingers- wants to put the blame onto Lee, the heat, this damned war but HE’S the general. He shudders to think how Congress will react to such a stalemate. They’re already so stubborn with the supplies he needs to keep his men at minimum capacity and he fears a defeat such as this will only make then stingier. 

 

George stops himself before his train of thought throws him into true despair. The last thing he needs is for his men to sense that their leader is losing faith in their cause. 

 

But damned if he doesn’t feel hopeless. 

 

He knows that he has to take responsibility, he assigned Lee to the post on the first place but he knows that many of the men are stewing with hate towards Lee. And many more are listening to his to his tales of malcontent towards Washington. 

 

Infighting. The last thing he needs. 

 

George wishes all he had to worry about was fighting with the British but now it’s his own officers, his own government, his own secretary………….

 

A mix of anticipation, annoyance, guilt and dread twist in his gut. While he knows most of his men won’t blame him outright, he knows Alexander does. He can’t recall ever seeing Alexander so enraged. George can’t help but thinking about the tears of frustration leaking out the corners of his tired eyes, the blood and ink staining his hands from crushing his inkwell with his fist, his voice kept uncharacteristically and dangerously low as he spit poison in his direction.  

* * *

 

“How can you blame an idiot for doing something idiotic? Why did you give him a station over someone you know who could do better -“ Alexander’s standing in front of George’s desk although the general’s eyes are focused on his secretary’s bleeding hand. He walked in on Alexander smashing it, a new causality list sitting on his desk and a dozen letters written to families whose sons weren’t coming home. 

 

“That’s why I sent Lafayette,” he attempts to  explaining calmly, wanting to tend to Hamilton’s clenched fist. 

 

“You could have let me prove myself.” Alexander half - snarls, staring down Washington as if he was about to punch him. 

 

“What exactly are you trying to prove?!” He replies evenly enough but his voice is significantly louder than he intends, his anger and exhaustion finally slipping through. 

 

“That I’m worthier than being a fucking letter maid.“  he spits back. 

 

“Watch your mouth and my decision to keep you from committing suicide via battlefield has nothing to do with your worth Hamilton!” George replies exasperated. 

 

“History isn’t going to remember the man who sat behind a desk all day! Why do you deny me from making my name?” 

 

“Have you considered me for even a moment? God Alexander,  why would I trade having you for the duration of the war and long after it for a few months of you fulfilling your dreams of military glory?” 

 

“Pardon me your ‘excellency’ but you’re so transparent. I doubt you’ve resisted Lafayette in the same manner. Just admit it!” His voice breaks and a stray tear leaks from his eyes which he furiously brushes away. He turns toward the tent door and Washington can see that he’s trembling with anger or the physically attempt to keep himself from crying. 

 

“I’m not a damsel in distress  _ sir _ . Laf is my brother in arms yet you see me as an infant and him a man. I’m glad I understand how you feel about me.” He hisses. 

 

“You can not begin to compare my affection to Lafayette to my feelings for you.” George says quietly and he sees Alexander freeze, his hand on the flap of the door. He turns and George feels his heart skip at the tears freely falling over his puzzled expression. 

 

“What could that possibly mean?” He inquires quietly before stealing out into the dusk.

 

* * *

 

 

That was 2 days ago and Alexander was still avoiding him. George lies back in the hay and feel acutely aware of every ache he possesses. The barn is blissfully quiet and he’s thankful he sent the men into town. A moment of stillness, to work on the tangle of emotions rolling through his mind. 

 

_ What could that possibly mean?  _

 

Though unpleasant, George can imagine Lafayette dying. He imagines like it would be like losing a child at an early age. The thought of the young Frenchman dying before fulfilling his dream of seeing his country free would unsettle him but with the years he knows the pain would turn into a simple shake of his head, a muttered “such a shame- a great man taken from us too early”. He’s lost many friends to the various wars he’s been involved in and Lafayette’s death would surely crush him, but he’d just surely as move on. 

 

But Alexander- he can’t fathom him not being by his side in fact he can scarcely imagines time before the young man was attached to his hip.  

 

He can’t articulate the difference between the two men but his heart can and _ it hurts _ too much to consider what would if Alexander- 

 

“Sir?” George sits up startled. He’d assumed most of the men had taken the opportunity to get drunk for the first time in months. It’s dark and George can barely see past his horse’s hind legs but then the shadowy form is moving toward the light and it’s - 

 

“Hamilton.” It comes out like a sigh of relief and Washington doesn’t know why. 

 

“Sir.” George raises an eyebrow waiting for him to continue but Alexander only sighs and stares at his hands. George had the wild urge to catch them in between his own. To protect them. Hold them. Raise them to his mouth and kiss every digit so he knows exactly how much Washington values the things that he does. 

 

“Sir- I’m……” 

 

“An apology isn’t necessary Colonel. You’re the last person that I’d want to quarrel with. I’ll need now more than ever and I would truly be stupid if I let some passionate disagreement cause you to resign.” He can see Alexander nod, more to himself than anything and turn to leave. He takes two steps before turning back abruptly. 

 

“With all due respect sir but how do you feel about Lafayette?” George’s mouth opens and closes several times before he can finally reply.  

 

“May I ask why?” He stalls. He has the foresight to see where this is going. Alexander, ever the analyst, figures he can determine his place in Washington’s heart in relation to his friend. He wishes that he could clearly articulate his feelings but they feel too dangerous and specific to be brought to light. 

 

So he’ll lie. 

 

“You said you felt about us differently. I want to know what’s the difference.” Hamilton’s voice is flat. Washington recognizes this- it means he won’t leave with an unsatisfactory answer. And Washington has nothing to give. 

 

“I- misspoke.” Washington starts but Hamilton shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. 

 

“You didn’t.” He sighs and sits in the hay beside his commander. Their legs are pressed against each other and the heat of Hamilton through Washington’s pant leg is distracting. 

 

“I love working by your side sir but I can’t help thinking that your doing me a favor. As if I have no place here really and you’ve made me your secretary to avoid telling me the truth. That I’m just a terrible soldier.” 

 

“Oh Alexander.” Washington sighs and awkwardly wraps his arm around Alexander’s shoulders. He can feel the younger man tensing in the half-embrace but after several long seconds he relaxes and sighs loudly. 

 

“Do you suppose that we meet everyone in our lives for a specific, greater, good?” Hamilton whispers into the cotton of Washington’s sleeve. 

 

“Yes- I suppose.” Washington treads carefully- he doesn’t want his words to trap him again. 

 

“Then why does meeting you seem like it’s brought me nothing but heartache into mine.” Washington sucks in a breath. He pulls away and turns so his fully facing Alexander. 

 

“You hired me to be a secretary yet you treat me like your second in command. You say you value me as a soldier yet you won't let me go into battle. You call me son but sir I’ve seen the way you look at me and  _ you’re lying when you tell me your affections lie more with Lafayette.”  _ George stands quickly taking a cautious step backward. 

 

“Hamilton- you must understand that this infatuation is nothing but a short-summer time madness. Desperation, loneliness. The strain of battle, missing my wife.” But damn, Martha isn’t looking at him so desperately right now. 

 

She’s not rising, stalking closer the general with heat in his eyes. Her hands aren’t pressing into his chest, feeling his hammering chest. 

  
  


“You’re not the only one who’s infatuated.” 

 

Martha’s lips aren’t this close, they aren’t this warm, aren’t full of so many wonderfully clever words. 

 

“ _ Oh. _ ” 

 

* * *

 

Martha doesn’t kiss him that night. 

 

She doesn’t take him in her mouth down to the root making him bite his fist in mute the wild cry of pleasure in his throat. (  _ Thank God the men are gone _ ) 

 

She won't be wearing bruises on the inside of her thighs and hips and wrists. 

 

She didn’t spend across his fist, the words “Please” and “Sir” and “Yes” slurring together in ecstasy.

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
